Manhappenings

Strong.

And dirty.

Maybe spiked with Xanax.

Maybe two of them.

Best friends and I are evacuating New York City tonight. Off to my Aunt’s house in Connecticut, god bless her. If we don’t get mobbed at Grand Central, that is. Delicious home-cooked meals, plenty of cocktails to help us unwind, pajamas. Cya in a few, Manhattan. Hopefully still intact.

This should be interesting. 

There was an earthquake in Virginia yesterday. Tremors rippled north, through New York to Rhode Island, and south to the Carolinas. My 40-story glass building shook. It was weird. The East Coast freaked. Social media went wild. California is still laughing. That’s all.

Finally. I can’t believe it. How did I wait so long. It’s almost sinful.

Saturday night. NoLita. Mulberry Street. Between Prince and Spring. Trees. Lamplight. An old wooden bench. A red-and-white-striped awning. Two glowing bulbs, beckoning you in the twilight.

Pizza.

Rubirosa.

A small, unassuming, family-style (and run) neighborhood ristorante. Cozy, narrow, low-lit, sleek bar, high-tops for two (ideal date spot), farmhouse tables for more (ideal girls-night spot), big front windows to the city street, embellished with golden, hand-stenciled ‘Rubirosa’s, in curling forties fashion. 

A variety of bruschetta (meatball, cannelini-pepper-olive, or braised duck with pecorino and carmelized onion), seriously enticing homemade pastas (black and white, sausage ragu, lasagna for two), and a great cocktail/wine list (a bottle of good red for only 26 dollars? in Manhattan? holy smokes). What takes the ticket though: thin crust pizza from a 50-year-old Staten Island recipe. Which means it’s essentially off the boat. And you can taste it.

Sauce made of crushed, flame-red tomatoes, not just paste and oil. Dough rolled out to the perfect depth for oven-burned edges and a gratifying crunch. And just enough cheese so that your hands aren’t slick but a thin gooey strand still stretches between the slices you’re trying to separate. Oh, why not just take both of them.

Three of my dearest friends and I: un bottiglia vino rosso della casa. Three pies (yep…hungry, hungover girls with no shame and a shared affinity for fine dining. believe me, you’ll eat it all) - fresca (that to-die-for tomato sauce, mozzarella, basil), pesto (with cherry tomatoes and a spat of mozzarella) and mushroom (with pecorino, proscuitto, snap peas and balsamic for a sweety and salty slice). Clean plate club, all the way around. And finally, total suckers for the chalk board of “Specials”: a dessert of peach crumble, topped with a scoop of vanilla gelato, served in your own mini cast iron skillet.

Che buonissimo!

Photos courtesy of New York Magazine.

                                                                        this is great

                                                      photo courtesy of the gothamist

                                             ….a sugar daddy to take me fall shopping.

Don’t think of it as granoly or villagey or yogi or weird.

Instead think of it as simple and seasonal and nutritional and good.

And rather than think about it, just try it. Taste it.

You won’t regret it. You might even be surprised. You might even like it. Even if just a little.

Angelica Kitchen, on the corner of 12th Street and Second Avenue, has all the allure of an ambient East Village restaurant. Attracting those good, hungry people who wander about the neighborhood’s tree-lined streets in search of a decent spot to grab some dinner. Open windows, low lighting, cool decor, always packed. But the closer one gets to the door, the further you often go. Because you’ll soon come upon the menu, and shortly thereafter you’ll realize that this restaurant is indeed local, vegan and cash only.

Nothing more frightening than a hippie.

Those very things are what kept me from dining at AK for quite some time, despite enticing reviews and a desire to keep on trend with local, sustainable eating. Sunday night, however, I finally had a willing subject of a friend in town - so we went, gave it a shot, and we didn’t leave hungry.

And while the vegan mentality is certainly one worthy of debate, the cash-only policy comes from an admirable place, rather than simply a restauranteur’s attempt to cut some extra costs and paperwork. This idea is quickly becoming en vogue, as it creates a more simple and efficient trickle down effect: we hand the restaurant our bills, the restaurant hands our bills to the farmer or food artisan (literally, because AK buys hefty portion of their ingredients from the Greenmarket in Union Square). On top of supporting local business and ecology, it cuts the carbon footprint of the three-bean chili or soba noodle bowl that sits on the placemat before you. It also ensures that you’re getting a quality meal, cultivated by the hands of an actual person, not a machine. 

But morality aside, the food is delicious, its affordable - even for being green - and it tastes fresh. Good. Sure words like tempeh and couscous can be a little nauseating at times, but try the roasted vegetable salad with garlic crostini and creamy hummus. Or a dragon bowl of Japanese broth, rice, tofu and assorted vegetables. Try specials, like the risotto (zucchini pesto) and soup (corn cilantro jalapeno) of the day. And if all of this still leaves you bored and wanting…you need that little end-of-meal nosh as a reminder of normal life and your position as an omnivore in this world, then try the desserts: homemade fig newtons, a lemon vanilla custard tart, an orange shortcake. Or how about an apricot peach almond parfait.

Okay, so you’ll probably need some meat for lunch tomorrow, but I promise you, at the table, with your chopsticks, and your clean conscience, you won’t feel like anything is lacking.

(And if you still don’t believe me, read this gentle review by The New Yorker. The toughest food critic in town.)

I don’t think Kate’s wedding could have been any more lovely. Or filled with more hip and beautiful people. The quintessence of Miss Moss, and her timeless style and charm. Thanks for the continued inspiration, mi amore. Might take some notes for all the planning I’ll soon have to do (don’t worry, boys, it’s not for me…yet).

                                                 Photos courtesy of Vogue.

I wish I had gone to the McQueen exhibit, primarily for this:

And it probably would have been worth the wait. But then again, this:

Saturdays Surf NYC is as cool as it sounds - the perfect place to spend that first part of your day, on the first day of your weekend. This coffee-surf-art-clothing shop caters to the Manhattanite who likes to kick it out to Montauk or Rockaway on his summer vaca, or jetset off to Cali or Maui or Tokyo once the weather cools. Selling boards, menswear, books, accessories and, of course, great grinds from the beautiful barista at the front of the house. Flip through vintage surfing photos, buy a sweet and simple logoed tank, or sip your espresso in the back garden while listening to the lovely Australian accent of a beautiful blonde who is quickly convincing you that the salty ocean on your skin and in your hair and under your feet is all you really need in life. 

….get to the beach this weekend, while you still have a chance. Maybe have a margarita. Or two. Maybe meet someone. Maybe fall in love. Take a romp in the waves. Bikinied. Or fully clothed. Or… Maybe build a castle. Maybe let your friends bury you in the sand. Maybe lay on your back and watch the stars. And wait there for the sun to rise. Maybe pack a bag. Get out of town. Out of dodge, maybe. Or stay. Yeah, maybe stay. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

                              And the first issue with my name in it. Summer and time have flown.